Things Not Seen
by threedays
Summary: Preseries terror for your holiday enjoyment. "These are not your average Christmas Eve jitters. Something has been tapping at the room's only door for the better part of an hour. The boy on the bed closest the door – the boy holding the gun – would be willing to wager a great deal of money, if he had any, that the thing tapping at the door is not Santa Claus."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Merry Christmas! Some terror for your holiday enjoyment. :) This is Part One and you'll get the second part tomorrow. I was going to post the whole thing as one chapter, but it turned out pretty long. This is preseries – the boys are 13 and 9.

Disclaimer: If these were my boys, I'd feed them better, dress them warmer, and insist on a proper bedtime.

* * *

**Things Not Seen**

_Chapter One_

The neon sign keeps flashing, with a buzz that sounds like summer moths but is only electric. Snow must be screwing with it. Or maybe it's just wearing out, like everything else this side of the road.

Half the time the sign says "Vacancy" and the other half it only says "ancy" and that's how both the room's occupants feel, is antsy. Never mind it's half past ten. Neither boy can sleep.

These are not your average Christmas Eve jitters.

Something has been tapping at the room's only door for the better part of an hour. The boy on the bed closest the door – the boy holding the gun – would be willing to wager a great deal of money, if he had any, that the thing tapping at the door is not Santa Claus.

He's not going to check, though.

To check, he would have to cross the room, and unhook the chain, and turn the lock, and twist the knob, and open the door, which would disturb the salt, and _look _at whatever is making the noise.

He cannot do it.

No one could accuse the boy of being a scaredy-cat. Scaredy-cat is such a juvenile term, anyway, and the boy isn't juvenile. At thirteen, he's faced monsters more days than not. Even now, on this night when others celebrate, he is standing guard inside a warped motor lodge with a sign out front that says "S eep E sy," because some of the letters have stopped buzzing and simply gone out.

If he were alone inside the room, the door would already be open, the threat faced.

Two things are stopping him.

One is the nine-year-old wrapped in two bedspreads and a leather jacket, lying on the second bed, pretending he isn't crying.

The other is the fact that it's tough to face something that doesn't have a … well, a face. And the thing at the door? It isn't something you can look at, shoot at, fight like you would a regular monster.

The boy takes a minute to think how screwed up it is that, in his life, there is such a thing as a "regular monster."

Then he scoots himself off the first bed and onto the second, next to the quivering lump of fabric and leather he knows houses his brother.

"I know you're awake."

There is a pause, no doubt while the younger child works out whether he's going to try to play possum. In the end, he comes clean. "I have to wait up for Santa." His voice is stained bitter. The older child feels something inside of him cave in at the sound.

He forces a snort, an eye roll. "Good luck with that, dude." Makes sure he sounds nothing but sarcastic, nothing but perfectly normal. Still. His hand hovers over the shape that anyone else would mistake for a pile of dirty laundry. Then settles in the general vicinity of the younger boy's shoulder. Some of the sniffling fades away.

In the quiet that follows, the tapping seems louder, but not as loud as the buzzing of the neon light outside. It isn't right that something mundane should be so much louder than something supernatural. There is no clarity of sound tonight. Although in the cold of winter, sound carries, it's tough to tell how far away the noises are, and how many of them are just the regular noises of an old motel, clanking pipes, leaky faucets. The walls are sweating and the older boy edges the younger boy's pillow and blankets away from the dampness.

"Dean?"

"Hmm."

"When is Dad -"

"Shut up."

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

And,

_Buzz. Clank. Drip. Drip._

Dean leaves his brother to his … what, moping? Brooding? He's a little annoyed at Sam for being so dramatic, but more annoyed with himself for adopting his father's way of thinking on the matter. Sam's nine, and on Christmas Eve night, he's huddled next to a crappy space heater, listening to the sounds of evil tapping at the door. And Sam isn't like Dean. Sam has friends at school. Friends who have been talking nonstop all week, no doubt, about their Christmas plans, about the video games they're going to get and the meals they're going to eat and the cookies they're going to leave out for a Santa Sam knows isn't real.

Kid isn't moping, isn't brooding. He's genuinely sad. Sad so deep down that he doesn't know how to say it. Doesn't know how to do anything except wrap himself in his brother's jacket, and the Sleep Easy Motor Lodge's flimsy excuse for blankets, and stare at the wall.

Somewhere deep inside his own self, Dean wishes he remembered how to cry.

He busies himself with the more mundane aspects of his duties this evening. Checks the phone – still out. Could be the storm, or it could be intentional. The thing at the door seems to have such capabilities. It can't cross the salt, so Dean feels relatively safe right now. Still. He doesn't like this limbo. Doesn't like being trapped inside, doesn't like his brother trapped either. He wishes he could call Bobby, who is supposed to get a message to Dad if the thing should show up at the Sleep Easy.

What that tells Dean is that Dad knew it was a possibility. Knew it was a possibility and trusted Dean to handle it, which makes him puff up with pride.

What it seems to tell Sam, on the other hand, is that Dad knew it was a possibility, and still drove away, not caring whether his sons were in danger.

Sometimes the older brother wonders if he's truly related to the younger.

His duties consist, as always, of watching out for Sam, and defending the room, should something get inside. They do not include going on the offensive, so as much as the tapping is wearing on him, he does not rip open the door and face the spirit.

This isn't like the other ghosts he's helped his father and uncle deal with. It isn't tied to a specific location, to human remains or a certain object. And it isn't angry, necessarily, or vengeful. It's more … thoughtful. That's even what Uncle Bobby called it, was a thought form. A spirit being made not out of a person's soul, but rather, out of their mind, their thoughts. Created by the death of a person with such a big mind, such big thoughts and plans, that it was impossible for all that energy to die with them, and a shadow stayed behind.

Problem is, that makes it _smart._ Turns out, it can even _research. _

It knows where John Winchester is staying, and that he has sons.

Dean checks his ammo, not that they've found anything that can kill it. He checks the phone again. He checks to see that Sam isn't looking.

Then he eases toward the window.

He wants to _see_ it. Or, rather, to see whether it _can_ be seen. He helped his father with the research and he knows the mechanics of the thing – how it was formed, how it can be defeated by a spell performed on the location of its death, on the anniversary of the same – but he doesn't _know_ the thing, not the way his dad and Bobby know the things they hunt. He's never seen a spirit formed from thoughts. He's never seen this particular monster, and the more monsters he sees, the better hunter he will be. So he eases closer to the window.

Closer still.

The tips of his fingers brush the heavy mauve draperies, rough with dust and age. He isn't breathing, is barely moving. He _thinks_ the curtain to the side, a centimeter at a time, until there is a sliver of space between the curtain and the window, just enough for one eye to peek out.

At first all he can see is the sign, flashing from "Vacancy" to "ancy" and back again.

Then he sees his reflection.

But it's wrong. It's wrong somehow.

The reflection, at first of a slightly-worried thirteen-year-old boy gazing out at the winter night, becomes warped, morphing into something else altogether. Still a face, but not Dean's any longer. A grotesque caricature of a thirteen-year-old boy, as if the thing, lacking its own face, is able to borrow his reflection somehow.

Dean bites his lip.

His reflection smiles.

Dean startles back from the window, so fast he trips, and goes down in a heap next to the motel bed. Sam startles, fights his way free of the tangle of blankets, hollering, "Dean? What's going on? Dean -"

"Shut _up!" _Dean regains his feet, cheeks pink with shame, and rushes to pull the drapery flush against the wall, eliminating the gap he'd created.

"What are you doing?" Sam demands.

"Shut up!" Dean can't quite slow his breathing back to regular. Behind him, his younger brother shivers, whether from cold or fear he can't say.

There is a long silence, broken only by cheap fluorescent lights and both boys' breaths.

Then Dean says, "It's really out there."

_Tap!_

Both boys jump, and Sam scurries back to the second bed. Dean isn't far behind him. This time they both pile under the covers. Dean makes sure he's on the side closest the window. He might be creeped out – a little scared, even – but he still has a job to do.

"What was it?" the younger brother asks.

"Not Santa Claus," the older brother answers.

* * *

The vacancy sign goes out completely sometime after midnight.

The tapping at the door has not stopped.

Dean's gaze finds the green light of the digital clock. "Merry Christmas, Sam," he says, desperate to hear something besides the tap-tap-tap of the thing outside. He wonders what it's waiting for. Wonders whether it thinks he's going to look outside again, if it just keeps tapping.

He's not.

Sam hasn't answered. He must be asleep.

Not that Dean isn't used to being alone and awake in motel rooms while his brother sleeps. But he doesn't want to be alone on this night. He nudges Sam a little, clears his throat too loud. Hopes his brother will come awake without realizing he's to blame for it.

Sam doesn't wake.

Dean moves around so the bed shakes, the headboard whacking against the damp wall. He brushes his hand through his hair, letting his elbow thud against Sam. He stretches out his feet, kicking his brother's feet almost entirely off the bed. He tugs on the blanket.

Sam stays still.

Something sinks within Dean. He leans closer to his brother, face to face, except Sam's face is covered by the blanket. Dean's fingertips brush the blanket, which is threadbare, and rough with old cigarette burns. He inches the fabric downward, a centimeter at a time. Then admonishes himself for being silly, and yanks the blanket down all at once.

Sam's eyes are open. He is smiling.

Dean can't help the shout of surprise – definitely a manly shout, not a scream or anything – at the sight of his brother's glassy eyes and wide grin. He grips Sam's shoulders, shakes him hard. "Sam!"

No answer, only that garish grin, horrifying in the low light.

"Sammy! What the hell, man? Sam!" Dean lifts his brother and lets him drop back against the bed. Sam is board-stiff, but too warm to be dead. The thought alone shakes Dean to his toes. He slaps his brother across the face.

Sam lunges toward him with a gasp.

"Ow!" he shouts.

The grin is gone, and the eyes are Sam's. Pissed-off Sam, sure, holding a hand to his stung cheek. But Sam nonetheless.

"What the _heck,_ Dean?"

"Sorry." Dean has to breathe for a minute before he can make any more words come out. "Sorry," he heaves again, one hand on his chest, the other on his brother's shoulder. "Shit, shit, shit," he whispers.

"Stop cussing at me," Sam says.

In spite of his terror and the thundering pace of his heart, Dean can't help but smile a little at that. Sam is nine-going-on-thirty and he disapproves of cuss words.

"Sorry, Princess," Dean pants, breath starting to come back to him.

"Dean, what is going on?"

Dean runs through the scenarios in his head. He can't see himself telling Sam the truth – "I think you were possessed by an evil thought form for a minute there" – and he also can't see himself telling Sam everything's okay and to go back to sleep – sleep, where he could be grabbed again by the thing that can, apparently, enter a person's dreams.

He compromises. Keeps Sam awake with a lie.

"I thought I heard Santa."

Sam deflates with a heavy sigh, apparently deciding he's being mocked. "Shut up."

"Dude. I'm serious. I thought I heard Dad's car. Maybe he's sneaking around getting the presents wrapped or something."

Sam's eyes raise to his, looking so hopeful, Dean regrets telling this particular lie. "You think so?"

Dean shrugs, carefully back-pedals. "Never know. Even if that wasn't him I heard, dude, I'm sure he'll be home soon. He knows it's Christmas." _And he and Bobby will be worried they haven't heard from us by now._

"Christmas is tomorrow," Sam corrects him.

"Look at the clock, bro. It _is _tomorrow."

Sam looks, and his features soften a little. "Oh." He's still holding his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

The older boy takes long, slow breaths, lets them out in puffs of air between his lips. "Merry Christmas, Sam," he says. "What would you say to some bad Christmas movies? We should stay awake anyway in case Dad needs help hauling in the presents."

Sam finally lets his hand fall from his pink cheek. He yawns, stretches. Then nods. "Okay."

Dean flips on the TV.

* * *

It is half past three when the tapping stops.

Despite his best efforts, Dean has fallen asleep next to Sam. But when the tapping stops, he springs awake as if a gun has gone off.

The VACANCY light has started buzzing again, and somebody in another room flushes a toilet, making the pipes groan with protest.

It has grown colder in the room. Dangerously cold. Puffs of white air issue from Sam's lips. He snores softly, as if congested.

Dean looks at the space heater, sees that it is still running, still set on high. Condensation still drips down the walls as if the air inside is warm.

The curtains are wide open.

Dean startles to his feet, one hand reaching out to smack Sam awake. His brother wakes on first contact this time, comes to his feet at once. He stands still for several seconds, breathing hard and clutching his tangle of blankets.

"It's snowing again," Sam says, his voice thick with sleep.

"Don't look at the window," Dean whispers.

But of course Sam keeps looking, so they both see the moment when the snow changes directions, wisps of white curling up instead of down. Slow and easy, not like they're caught in any wind. Just like someone has flipped the snow globe upside down.

Sam catches a long breath in. Dean reaches for him, takes him by the hand.

The phone rings.

Sam screams. Dean makes a noise that is definitely _not _a scream. Then curses and starts for the phone.

"Don't answer it," Sam says severely, in a voice laced with panic. The noise has come so suddenly in the dark and quiet room that it's scared Sam half to death, but there's no way Dean's not going to answer. It might be Bobby. Might even be Dad.

"Hello?"

"Dean? I ain't heard from y'all in a while, son. Everything all right?"

Dean catches a breath in, then out. Shakier than he'd like to admit. "Bobby. Thank God –"

"Dean!" Sam whispers urgently, catching his brother's attention.

"Dean?" Bobby questions at the pause.

"Uncle Bobby, it's here." He gulps. "The phone's been out. It's been here for hours. It's outside, but … but something's wrong."

Bobby's answer is swift, and punctuated by the sounds of boots being pulled on, keys jangling. "You boys all right?"

"Dean ..." Sam is still frozen in place, still staring at the window. Dean looks. Sam's reflection is outside, spinning in slow circles, tongue out to catch the impossible snowflakes. Dean looks back to the real Sam, standing still, eyes huge.

"Oh, shit," Dean whispers.

"Dean." Bobby's voice is warm. Solid. "Check the salt. Arm yourself if you ain't already. I'll be there in an hour."

The line goes dead, but Dean has to work for a long time to make himself let go of the phone. He feels the loss of Bobby's voice, of his connection to the outside world. Fear grips his stomach in a cold fist. He shakes his head sharply – _get it together, soldier – _and rejoins his brother on the other side of the room.

Sam has not stopped staring at the window. Tears run slowly down his frozen cheeks. He presses his lips together. Outside, Dean can hear an echo of laughter that sounds for all the world like his brother. He scoots closer to Sam, grips his hand again. The fingers are cold. He can feel harsh tremors gripping the child.

"Sam." Dean shakes himself out of his own stupor, ducks in front of his brother, hands on the boy's shoulders, blocking the kid's view of the window. "Hey. Sammy. It's okay. It's okay."

Sam blinks, spilling more tears down his cold cheeks. He doesn't wipe them away, so Dean does.

"Bobby's coming," Dean says. "And that thing outside, it's just trying to scare us. It's just trying to scare us. It can't get in."

Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. So he points. Points behind Dean, one shaking finger drawing a line toward the door.

Dean turns.

In the narrow gap under the ill-fitting door, drifting snow has begun to blow inside. It melts on the moldy carpet.

It washes away the salt.

Dean gulps, then lunges. He grabs the canister of salt and dumps a healthy amount along the crack under the door. A gust of wind comes in quick, blowing the salt back into his face.

Into his eyes.

He can't see. _But at least my eyes are safe from evil_, he thinks darkly as tears stream down his cheeks. He scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, calling Sam's name as he does. The wind picks up, loud. There is buzzing, as if the VACANCY sign has strolled right into their room.

Sam doesn't answer.

"Sammy!" he shouts. "Answer me, dammit!" Scrubbing and scrubbing at his streaming eyes. He hears wind. He hears scuffs against the carpet, the sound of a door slamming.

Then …

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Then …

Silence.

Dean feels an overwhelming sense of hopelessness wash over him. He forces his eyes open, stinging against the cold air that is already starting to warm. There is no wind in the room, and the curtains are closed.

Sam isn't here.

He is alone.

* * *

_To be continued … _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So here is chapter two. I know it's a day late, but hopefully it's not a dollar short. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Things Not Seen**

_Chapter Two_

Dean's heard the term "blind panic" before, but he didn't realize it would refer to stumbling around a dim motel room on Christmas with salt in your eyes.

In the eloquent words of Bobby Singer, _balls._

Still. Some nights you have to take good news where you can find it. The wind, for example, has stopped. And the snow outside is falling down, not up. If not for the snow accumulated on the undersides of branches, you'd never know the laws of gravity had, for a little while, been merely a suggestion.

Dean is almost to the door when he veers mid-step, as if drawn, to check the window. He tugs the curtains open to reveal the wide, dark, yawning expanse of glass. Cold comes off it in waves. The images of outside – quiet parking lot, snow-covered cars, trees without leaves – are distorted as though they are reflected in water.

The window glass itself is fraught with reflections. The red light blinking on the space heater, signaling an impending safety shut-off to avoid overheating. The green of the digital clock reading Oh-Christmas-Thirty. The dingy crack of light at the bathroom door.

And of course there's Dean, reflected along one side, standing tall, trying not to look terrified. Even in his reflection he can practically see his own pounding heart.

Reflected next to him is Sam.

"Sam!" Dean whirls, but he is still alone inside the room. He glances back to look at his brother in the window. The child is no longer spinning with his arms out, catching upside-down snowflakes on the underside of his tongue. He is standing still, arms clutched across his stomach. His eyes are huge. His cheeks are wet.

He's staring right at Dean.

The older boy's mind narrows into focus. Check the closet. Check the bathroom. Check under the beds. Reflections have to be cast. Sam can't have disappeared, if his reflection is still in the window. Sam must still be in the room.

Dean rubs his eyes and checks the pile of blankets, although after nine years he knows the difference between an empty pile of blankets and one that's hiding his burrowing brother. He checks behind the TV cabinet. Behind the sink. Behind the filthy towels slung over the coat bar. Urgency makes his movements clumsy. He leaves a messy trail behind him, blankets in a snarl, TV overturned, towels strewn on the floor.

He finds Sam almost completely concealed beneath the nightstand, curled up small and wedged into a space meant for an overnight bag, not a whole entire kid. Emotions slam through Dean too fast to name, and he drops to his knees in front of his brother, roughly tugging Sam's elbow, which is the only part of the kid he can reach.

"Jesus Christ, Sam! You scared the crap out of me! What did you think you were doing?"

"Dean!"

It is Sam's voice. It is.

Except …

It isn't coming from the person under the nightstand.

Dean startles, whirls to standing, and finds the Sam-flection in the window still staring at him, face desperate and familiar.

"Dean, that's not me! That's not -"

He turns back to the Sam under the nightstand and it's looking at him.

No.

Grinning at him.

It is not a face that could ever come from Sam. Dean scoots back so fast he trips, crab-walks away from the abomination with his brother's features until he can get his feet under him again.

"Dean!" the window calls.

"Little busy," Dean grunts, backing up against the far wall. The thing that isn't Sam is creeping toward him, slowly. Almost leisurely. It unfolds itself from the space under the nightstand, and when it stands, it is taller than his brother. Much taller. It should not have been able to fit in the small hiding space.

Then again, it should not have been able to come inside and trap his brother in the window glass. There are rules tonight that don't apply.

"_Dean!" _He hears pure panic in his kid brother's voice.

"Dean can't come to the phone right now!" Dean growls. He's got both hands out in front of him to try to ward off the … what? Could this thing possibly still just be a thought form? Although it's approaching slowly, Dean can't imagine that it would be any more terrifying if it were to rush him and attack. The thing is moving … wrong. Jerky motions. Parts of it moving faster than others, legs dragging, arms akimbo. It makes eye contact with him and he sees his own reflection in its very un-Sam-like pupils. It never stops grinning.

Dean spares a glance to his brother in the window and his heart attempts to escape through his chest.

"Sam!" he shouts. "Behind you!"

The Sam in the window whirls to face the thing behind him – the thing that _could_ be Dean's reflection, if it weren't advancing slowly on Sam.

For several seconds, there is only the sound of breathing and footsteps and that damn incessant buzzing outside. Sam's footfalls tap like fingers on glass. The wind returns. Dean feels the air move against his skin, _hears_ grains of salt being flung wide.

He cannot panic.

He knows it falls to him to correct this situation. But besides praying for his dad to get the ritual done, and pronto, he has no idea what he's supposed to do. He can't shoot something with Sam's face, can he? What if he's wrong about it being separate from Sam? What if it's only possessing his brother? And shooting won't kill it anyway, he knows that from his research. Nothing will kill it besides the ritual, and his dad is taking care of that.

"Any time, Dad," he mutters.

"Dean," the thing in front of him says, in a voice that sounds for all the world like Sam. "Dean, help me." Although the voice is a reflection of the nine-year-old's, all innocence and fright and the weight of the world, the mouth that speaks it is still stretched wide, too-white teeth in a too-broad smile.

Then, from the window, an echo. _"Dean! Help me!"_

Dean doesn't know where to look. What to think. What to do. He sees his brother's reflection, backed up against the edge of the window frame. He _swears_ he hears the wood frame start to give, sees the window's structure buckle as reflection-Sam presses his back against it. Dean's own back touches the wall. There isn't anywhere else to go, for either of them. Sam is trapped by Dean's reflection, just like Dean is trapped by Sam's.

"This is _not _how Christmas is supposed to go down!" Dean growls.

"Tell me about it!" both Sams say.

"You've got to be friggin' kiddin' me," Dean mutters.

The creature steps so close to him that Dean can feel its toes against his. Everything in him screams at him to fight, but he doesn't know what might happen if he hurts the thing. What happens to a person happens to their reflection, right? What if, in hurting this beast, he hurts Sam?

So he stands, head turned to the side, with a shudder. He does not fight, even when it closes its warm, sticky fingers around his wrists, and leans close into his face, searching eyes only inches from his own. He can feel its breath on his skin. He is no longer reflected in its pupils, because it no longer has anything of the sort. There is nothing human about the eyes now. They are empty, like window glass.

"Windows to the lack of soul," Dean thinks darkly.

He closes his eyes for a second, trying to breathe through the panic, and when he opens them, he is making eye contact with his brother's reflection in the window. Behind Sam – no, _through_ Sam – he can see the snow falling heavier. Headlights pass, far away, on the interstate. Sam is nothing more than light on glass. But he is looking at his brother with eyes far older than nine, and far more solid than reflections on a window pane.

He is looking at Dean like he _knows_ something.

Dean tilts his head slightly, a quarter inch, studying his brother. Sam's onto something. He knows that look, would know it anywhere. That's the look Sam gets when he figures out a tough homework problem, when he figures out his next move in the prank war, when he beats Pastor Jim at chess.

Pride swells in Dean's chest. Sam's got this.

Sam inclines his head a hair's breadth toward window-Dean, flicks his eyes toward the thing in the motel room that's taken Sam's place. He screws up his forehead as if in thought.

His mouth moves. A brief word, one syllable, with maybe an "i" or "e" sound in the middle.

"Did you just call me a dick?" Dean mutters.

Sam rolls his eyes, moves his lips again, more clearly this time. Taps his temple with a finger.

All at once, Dean gets it. Sam's saying "Think."

Which is how these evil bastards were created in the first place.

* * *

For a while there, things get sketchy.

Dean tries for all he's worth to ignore the creepy-ass fugly in his face, to focus on that handsome devil he calls his reflection. He knows without looking that Sam's focusing on the thing that's holding Dean's arms and stinking up his airspace.

But nothing is happening.

No matter how hard Dean focuses – no matter how hard he visualizes the creature backing away from Sam, turning tail and running back to whatever evil dead guy's thoughts created it in the first place – nothing happens for a while. He tries to conjure up John Winchester – _mind over matter – focus on the job at hand –_ while he feels nails biting into his forearms and a shudder goes through him. The creature's touch is _wrong. _ He feels as though he's being studied. As though he himself is one of Bobby's books, being researched. He has new sympathy for pages.

And the thing he's supposed to be _thinking_ away from his brother, the thing that he's supposed to control, continues to advance, over there in the window, barely visible against the blizzard outside while it reaches for his Sammy.

It's when the thing's hands actually touch Sam that the tables turn.

Sam's concentration wavers and Dean feels the grip of the thing holding him get stronger, the eyes darker. He doesn't care. Doesn't care about anything except his brother, who is being pulled into a dark embrace, wrapped in long arms that might cause who knows what kind of harm.

"C'm'ere, Sam," Dean's reflection in the window says, in Dean's own voice.

Rage and panic beat a twin course through Dean's chest. "Back off him," he warns, voice dangerous.

But it continues to press toward Sam, and Dean feels the fingers on his wrists grow hotter, sharper, as his brother's gaze falters and his concentration wavers. A fierce protectiveness surges through Dean, sparking like electricity, as he sees Sam get pulled off his feet.

"_Back the hell off him!"_ he roars.

The creature lets go of his brother, looking shocked, and turns to stare right at Dean.

Then it backs up a step.

Dean screws up his face, focuses past all the clutter in his brain – girls, pie, other hunts, Dad's car, distant memories of Mom – and draws at the thought that is always at the forefront: _Keep Sam safe_.He forces the thought-form another step from his brother.

"_Get off him, you son of a bitch!" _Dean booms, voice coming out like Dad's instead of his own.

It backs up another step. Another. Tripping backwards to crab-walk the way Dean himself had done only moments before. It scurries away from Sam, pressed by Dean's thoughts, until its back meets the other side of the window frame, pressing against the wood, looking for a way out.

It isn't in reach of Sam anymore, and Sam has refocused on the thing in front of Dean. Dean feels its fingers go cool, feels them slip from his arm. It backs away from him. One step. Another. Until it is all the way back against the far wall, against the nightstand.

It bumps the lamp, which topples to the floor. The light bulb explodes with an unpleasant pop.

Outside, the first three letters of the VACANCY sign also pop, sparks arcing out and down, like fiery snowflakes, melting the drifts below. Window-Sam spins to look in the direction of the VACANCY sign, while Dean jumps a mile and glances at the broken lamp.

The room and its window go dark.

"Sam?" Dean calls. "Sammy!" He can hear the groaning wood of the window frame, can only hope it's the monster trying to escape and not his brother being grabbed again. In the dark, he moves in the direction of the window.

"Stay back!" Sam hollers.

Dean does. He feels sick. Was that really Sam telling him to stay back, or was it the creature in the room with him? He closes his eyes, focuses on the voice. It's Sam, he knows Sam, he'd know Sam if he didn't know anything else. He trusts the voice, waits.

"Dean, help me!"

Now, _that_ – that wasn't Sam. One breath in. One out. It is _so hard_ to stand still when something with your little brother's voice is asking you to help. But Sam said stay back. Sam's got this.

The window frame groans. Dean focuses on the sound, focuses all his energy on pushing that evil bastard right back out through the window. It's thoughts, is all it is, and the combined minds of the Winchester brothers are stronger than any old thought-form.

For long moments, there is only the sound of groaning wood and sparking electric and a low whine, like something being hurt. _Please don't be Sam,_ Dean thinks.

Then there is the sound of shattering glass, and all goes silent.

* * *

Outside, you would never know anything had gone wrong tonight. Snow falls softly from a gentle sky, dancing to the ground and drifting against parked cars, leafless trees, and tired children.

On the hill above the Sleep Easy Motor Lodge – well away from panes of glass - two brothers sit in the snow. The oldest is absentmindedly scrawling naughty words in the snow with a stick. The youngest has rolled two snowballs up in his hands and is patting them together into a shape.

Neither boy speaks. Not about how they conquered an evil thought form tonight with the power of their own minds. Not about how in a few hours the sun will rise on Christmas morning, and a lot of normal nine-and-thirteen-year-olds all over will gather around the tree, still warm and safe in pajamas and slippers, to open packages containing new toys, new games, new distractions from their boring lives.

Not about how none of those normal kids has probably ever defeated an evil thought form with the power of their own minds.

They don't have to say it.

As Bobby's truck finally comes into sight at the head of the road, fishtailing in their uncle's haste to reach them – a fact which warms both boys' hearts – Sam stretches out his hand toward Dean. In his palm is the snow sculpture he's been busily creating.

It's Dad's Impala, and not a bad likeness, either.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," Sam says. Dean listens for the stain of bitterness he'd detected last night, but he doesn't hear it. Tired, he hears. Maybe a residual trace of fear. But mostly he hears calm. And strong. And proud.

If he were a girl, or the sort of boy his brother was, he would hug the kid right now, he's so stinkin' proud of him. Not just for being able to sculpt a '67 Chevy out of a clump of frozen water, but for figuring out the answer tonight, and for following through with such courage and strength. And, moreover, for coming out of it still able to be a kid, to give his brother a present for Christmas. Dad's raising a good hunter, there's no doubt about it.

But Dean, he's raising a good _person_, and his heart swells till he doesn't think he can contain it. He has to react somehow, has to do something to tell Sam how proud he is of him.

He does the only thing he can think to do.

He smashes the '67 Impala Snowball down the neck of Sam's jacket.

When Bobby reaches them, disgruntled – and by that, he means _so _stinkin' proud – that he's nearly killed himself twice trying to come to the rescue and here they've gone and destroyed the threat all on their own, he finds two kids on Christmas, engaged in an all-out snowball battle.

He knows John Winchester will return soon, probably confused as hell why there didn't turn out to be anything to kill at the site of the thought form's creation. He knows the four of them will have Christmas breakfast in some crappy diner and that, likely, the only presents the boys will get will be the ones he's got hidden in the truck. He knows these boys lead hard lives and there is little he can do to make them better.

But at this moment, there is one thing he knows above all else, and he moves in to take care of it.

Somebody's got to teach Sam Winchester how to throw a proper snowball.

* * *

_A/N: And that's it! I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!_


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